


You'll Never Know What Hit You

by Elle_Morgan_Black



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Chess, Dark, Dubious Consent, F/M, Intrigue, Magic, Ministry of Magic (Harry Potter), Political Expediency, Scheming, The Slytherin Cabal's Twistmas 2018, Yuletide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 21:22:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17108357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle_Morgan_Black/pseuds/Elle_Morgan_Black
Summary: When Hermione Granger and Lucius Malfoy find themselves at odds at the Minister for Magic’s annual Yule Ball, each is determined to win what they see as a fight for the future of magical Britain. With stakes this high, a glass of spiked eggnog can change everything.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [Twistmas](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Twistmas) collection. 



> This story is for the Slytherin Cabal’s Twist-mas fest. I was given the prompt “spiked eggnog” and told to twist it into something dark and, well, twisted. Please note: this story contains dub-con. Many thanks to Tassana Burrfoot for beta-reading this for me and providing her feedback.

###  Part 1

 

_ You’ll never know what hit you _

_ Won’t see me closing in _

_ I’m gonna make you suffer _

_ This hell you put me in _

_ I’m underneath your skin _

_ The devil within _

_ You’ll never know what hit you. _

__                        - Digital Daggers, Devil Within _ _

 

 

“I will not remove the equal rights clause and the penalties! I’ve already watered it down enough as it is to get it past the Wizengamot!” Hermione Granger snapped, hands on her hips as she glared up at the pompous arse that was Lucius Malfoy. 

“The only reason the Wizengamot is remotely considering this proposal is because you’ve tied it to the Minister’s budget!” Malfoy hissed at her like the snake she knew he was.

It had been a flash of genius really, sneaking an anti-discrimination clause into the Minister’s budget that required equal rights in all areas for muggleborn witches and wizards and instituted hefty fines for discrimination or failure to comply. In all fairness, it had absolutely nothing to do with the budget, but she’d managed to convince Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt that fines raised as a result could be split between the affected muggleborns and the Ministry to help fund initiatives to ease the transition of young muggleborn students into the magical world. 

She could not make pureblood snobs like Lucius Malfoy  _ like _ or event really respect muggleborns, but she could damn well ensure that they paid the price for discriminating against them in decisions regarding hiring, housing, and other matters. It was an open secret in the magical world that the Malfoy family businesses only hired purebloods and engaged in a lot of underhanded business tactics to drive muggleborn start-ups out of business. The fines that could be levied against Malfoy business interests alone could likely fund entire departments in the Ministry of Magic.

Undoing the horrific discriminatory laws and policies set in place during Dolores Umbridge’s tenure at the Ministry of Magic had become her life’s work, her obsession, her  _ raison d’etre _ . Kingsley had done his part in the immediate aftermath of the war, but there was still so much work to do to make their world a more egalitarian place. Hermione had pushed for years to actually punish those who attacked, discriminated against, or otherwise harmed muggleborn witches and wizards, first as a Ministry worker and then as one of the few muggleborn members of the Wizengamot and a senior aide to Minister Shacklebolt. 

The bulk of the Wizengamot’s seats were hereditary, passed down through bigoted, pureblood families, allowing them hold onto their concentrated power and wealth, all whilst passing laws and judgements designed to maintain the status quo. It was nearly impossible for a muggleborn to achieve much in the way of professional or financial success because the odds were stacked so firmly against them the moment they set foot in the magical world. Hermione was painfully aware that she’d only accomplished what she had in large part because of her connection to Harry Potter and the role she’d played in helping him defeat Voldemort. It had bought her a tremendous amount of popularity and goodwill in the larger magical community, but it had yet to help her achieve her dreams of legal equality.

Over the years, she’d learned to accept defeat gracefully, she’d learned to compromise, and she’d learned how to be sneaky. 

Lucius Malfoy held one of those hereditary seats on the Wizengamot as well, and on issue after issue, he’d opposed her. And on issue after issue, he’d won. It grated on her nerves, and it frustrated her to no end that he was always one step ahead of her. 

But not this time. This time she would win. And when she did, she would have the power to dismantle the Malfoy family’s financial empire if they did not fall into line. 

It was everything she’d worked for, and it was  _ so _ close to coming to fruition.

And that was precisely why Lucius Malfoy was looking down his pointy pureblood nose at her, sneering in disgust as his grip tightened on the utterly ridiculous snake-head cane he still carried everywhere. 

She was not particularly worried about him drawing the wand she knew he concealed in the cane. This was a Ministry event after all, and engaging in any kind of magical fight at the formal Yule Ball at the Minister for Magic’s residence was simply  _ not _ done. 

“Don’t get your wand in a knot because I out maneuvered you, Malfoy,” she said smugly. 

“Miss Granger, my wand is in perfect condition, thank you very much. I must advise you to wipe that smug look from your face though because you have not outmaneuvered me at all, little girl,” he said with a sneer. 

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do  _ not _ call me a little girl! I am your EQUAL!” 

He laughed then, drawing curious glances from onlookers before leaning in toward her, the spicy scent of his cologne invading her senses. 

“You will never be my _ equal _ . You are _ beneath _ me. That is where you belong, and that is  where you shall stay,” he said in a low enough voice that only she could hear. 

His words and the unexpected sexual innuendo sent a shiver down her spine, a shiver she ignored as she glared back at him. “Only a fool would ever want to end up beneath the likes of  _ you _ . You’ve lost, Lucius Malfoy, and on the day that bill passes, I will pour a glass of champagne and celebrate the destruction of the last vestiges of Tom Riddle’s absurd war for blood supremacy.”

“You may want to keep that bottle of champagne corked, because you have not won. Far from it,” he said in a tone she found vaguely threatening. It was easy to see how he’d bullied other members of the Wizengamot to do his bidding over the years.

“We’ll see about that,” she said with a huff, eager to get away from him before she was tempted to continue arguing with him. Nothing good would come from that, surely. She turned on her heel and stalked away from him then, in a rustle of Gryffindor red silk and chiffon. What a disgusting, pompous, bigoted arse he still was, she thought to herself as she looked around the ballroom for her friends.

She found them easily and joined their conversation, but to her irritation, she could still see Lucius Malfoy out of the corner of her eye, watching her. 

_ Ugh, that stupid prat, _ she thought to herself.  _ Why couldn’t he just… go away? For good. _

Someone passed her a glass of eggnog, served in an elegant goblet, she smiled at the sight of it. The wizarding world tended to consider itself separate from the muggle world, but eggnog appeared to yet another little thing that both cultures had in common. It was a pity most of them were too bigoted to see it. She took a long sip and then sighed with delight. She’d never admit it to Malfoy or his cronies, but this eggnog truly was better than anything she’d tasted in her Christmases in muggle London with her parents. She downed it quickly and smiled at the magic that refilled her glass.

The evening passed in a blur after that. She nibbled on exquisite delicacies, danced with Harry, Ron, Neville, Dean, and other friends from school and colleagues from the Ministry. She felt Malfoy’s eyes on her a few times over the course of the night and made sure to glare at him each time. She made polite conversation with members of the Wizengamot, danced and laughed with her friends, and drank more eggnog. The hour grew late, and Harry left with a pregnant and exhausted Ginny, but the party was still in full swing. Everyone was in such great spirits, and she honestly could not remember the last time she’d had this much fun at a Ministry gala.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

###  Part 2

 

Hermione awoke the next morning with a raging headache and the uncomfortable feeling that she’d been hit by a lorry. She rolled over in bed and clutched her head in pain, ignoring the light streaming through her bedroom window. Her mouth felt as if stuffed with cotton, she was more than a bit nauseated, and everything hurt.

She managed to stumble to the loo and empty the contents of her stomach into the toilet. After she recovered enough to be upright, she rummaged about the room until she found a spare hangover potion she kept for the very rare occasions when she over-indulged. 

She downed it quickly and laid on the floor waiting for it to take effect, resting her cheek on the fluffy blue bath mat. 

_ I am never drinking again _ , she thought as her stomach roiled. 

But then, she considered silently, had she really consumed all that much alcohol? Surely not. It was not like her to get drunk at a Ministry event. There were far too many colleagues present, far too many members of the Wizengamot. Surely she’d not gotten utterly trashed in front of them. And yet… and yet she certainly felt hungover. Hungover and sore. 

As the potion slowly seeped into her system, quieting her protesting stomach and removing some of the ache in her head, Hermione carefully pulled herself up from the floor and studied her reflection in the mirror. She was still wearing the red silk and chiffon evening gown from the night before, but it was horribly wrinkled, no doubt from being slept in. Her hair was a snarled mess, and the careful updo she’d styled was now partially undone. There was a heavy swath of eye makeup that had make its way under her eyes overnight. 

“Charming,” she muttered to herself. She must have stumbled home and collapsed into bed last night. 

She leaned in closer and peered at her reflection. Was that… a bruise on her neck? It almost looked like it, but that was certainly odd for she could not recall injuring herself in any way the night before. Actually, now that she considered it, she couldn’t remember much of the party after dancing with Seamus Finnigan. She wasn’t even sure how she’d gotten home. She wondered which of her friends she’d need to thank for flooing her safely home, although she was certain she’d never live it down, as getting blackout drunk was most definitely not her style.

She stripped off her dress and took a long, hot shower. Her body ached in the oddest of ways, and she could not help but wonder what that was all about. Had she stumbled last night in her drunkenness and bumped into a wall? Did she trip over her on feet last night before falling into bed? It was most peculiar. It almost felt as if… but no. Surely not. She’d certainly remember  _ that _ .

That was all the thought she gave to the matter before pulling on a pair of pyjamas and curling up in bed. Hangover potions were nothing short of miraculous, but she knew from past experience after the war that she’d feel even better after she had a long nap. 

 

~oOo~

 

Hermione awoke hours later to the sound of an owl tapping at her window. She let him in and marveled at sight of the sleek beast. 

“Aren’t you a beauty?” she murmured as she took the letter attached to his leg. The unfamiliar bird nipped at her finger before flying away, clearly not expecting a response from her. 

She did not recognize the handwriting on the thick cream envelope, but her hand shook in horror as she viewed the contents within.

_ My dear Miss Granger, _

_ It was a delight having you beneath me - which is, I must say, exactly where you belong. I had not anticipated what a ruckus you’d make as I fucked on you on the Minister’s desk in his private office. Thank Merlin for silencing charms.  _

_ Enjoy these charming mementos of our time together. I know I shall look upon them with fondness. And you, my dear, will remove all of the anti-discrimination amendments from the Minister’s budget, or these rather shocking images will find their way to the Daily Prophet. What will the wizarding world think about their darling Gryffindor princess, spread out like such a whore? It would be such a pity for your reputation and career to be destroyed by the implication that you trade policies for access to your sweet cunt.  _

_ You were a much better fuck than I anticipated, given your generally uptight nature. We shall have to do this again sometime.  _

The letter was unsigned, but the content made it all too clear who’d sent it. Her hands shook violently as she set it aside. Despite the hangover potion and the nap, she felt bile rise in her throat at the images he’d included. A series of magical moving pictures showed her - and it was unmistakably her - in various states of debauchery. In one, she was on her knees, a thick cock sliding in between her lips as she clung to a man’s dress robes. In another, she was bent over a desk with her dress rucked up to her waist, looking coyly back at the camera as a pale hand slapped her bare arse. The third was a close up of her on her back, clearly laid out on a desk with the halter top of her gown unfastened. Her hands tugged at her own nipples, her body moving rhythmically as someone off camera fucked her. The final photo looked as if it had been taken from above. In it, Hermione was still laid out on the desk, tits bared, legs spread around the formal dress robes of the wizard fucking her, her back arching in obvious pleasure. To her horror, that image also showed a framed photo of Kingsley Shacklebolt and his wife on the desk, next to the traditional hat Kingsley wore when he spoke before the Wizengamot. 

In not a single image could you make out the identity of the wizard with her, but she knew. 

Lucius Malfoy. 

She tossed the photos aside and rushed back to the toilet just in time to vomit again.

 

~oOo~

 

The photos - those horrible, disgusting images - triggered something in her mind, and slowly bits and pieces of the previous night crept back into her consciousness. She could clearly remember arguing with Lucius and then leaving to find her friends. She could remember laughing with them, dancing, and having a lovely time as she drank her eggnog.

Eggnog.

There had to have been something in the eggnog. 

It was unlike her to get drunk at a Ministry function anyway, but drunk enough to have  _ sex  _ with  _ Lucius Malfoy _ ? There was not enough alcohol in all of wizarding Britain for that.

Yet the pictures said otherwise. 

She had brief flashes of memory - his mouth on her neck, his fingers pressing inside of her, touching  _ something  _ no one had ever touched before and making her cry out and arch her body into his. She remembered her hands in his hair, and marveling at the slippery softness of his long blond locks. What a peculiar thing to stand out in her mind - the feel of his hair. She had an uncomfortable memory of a hissing voice in her ear, whispering degrading, filthy, humiliating things to her as he touched her. She remembered with tremendous mortification, gazing up at him and begging for more, begging him to go harder, to make her come again.

But how she got there, how he approached her, how he accomplished this horrific feat, she could only wonder. 

Her brain whirled with possibilities as she considered what chemical cocktail he’d used to drug her. Not  _ amortentia _ , no, she had no memories of giddily proclaiming her love for him or anyone else. A lust potion? Possibly, but her hatred for Malfoy ran deep enough that she did not think that alone would be sufficient inducement to engage in such disgusting, scandalous activity with him. She’d clearly been conscious in the photos, and enough memories of the night had been triggered by the photos that she knew she’d been an active participant - a fact that made her skin crawl. Perhaps he’d used a lust potion in combination with something to lower inhibitions? A modified lust potion that made her more compliant? It had not felt like the  _ imperius  _ curse, and she doubted Malfoy would be so bold as to use an unforgivable curse in the Minister’s own home.

There were no frantic floo calls from her friends, no Ron or Harry banging down the door to her flat, demanding to know what the hell she’d been thinking the night before. There were no owls delivering messages from Kingsley, telling her that she was fired or from her allies in the Wizengamot saying that they were concerned about her behavior. 

Obviously however Lucius had gotten her into Kingsley’s private office and then home, he’d done so with great discretion, and that only fueled her anxiety over how he’d managed all of that without getting caught.

Whatever it was, whatever illegal and illicit means he’d used to accomplish this vile act, he’d done so solely for the purpose of blackmailing her, and it made her want to vomit. He couldn’t beat her fair and square in the political arena. He’d been outmaneuvered by a muggleborn, and he couldn’t take it, so he’d resorted to this. It was disgusting. It was cruel. It was evil, and with each passing moment, her anger over the entire situation multiplied.

His letter haunted her, haunted her even more than the photos. It was blackmail. Absolute, utter blackmail. Fury boiled inside of her, boiled until she had to do  _ something  _ or she’d surely explode.

She dressed quickly, gripped her wand, and apparated away with a loud crack.


	3. Chapter 3

###  Part 3

The sight of Malfoy Manor made her pause as nausea roiled in her belly again. She turned and dry heaved into the snow by the front gate as the very sight of the house triggered memories of her wartime capture and her torture at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange. She took steadying deep breaths to remind herself that Bellatrix Lestrange was dead and gone, and the only evil still lurking within the stone walls before her was the Lord of the Manor himself. 

A quivering house elf showed her inside, quietly mumbling that his master was expecting her. 

_ Yes, I’m sure he is _ , she thought grimly.  _ That bastard has probably been waiting for me to show up since he sent that damned owl. _

And indeed the master of the house was waiting for her, as she found when she opened the door to a grand study, only to have her wand fly from her hand.

“You bastard!” she hissed at the haughty pureblood reclining in a chair behind a desk the size of her dining table.

He palmed her vine wand with a smirk.

“I assure you, my parents were properly wed, Miss Granger, but let’s set aside the vulgar talk, shall we?”

“Vulgar?  _ Vulgar? _ ” she spat, her rage escalating with each passing second. “How dare you drug me,  _ rape  _ me, and blackmail me and dare call ME vulgar, you vile, evil, repulsive excuse for a human being!” 

He made a tsk-ing sound that infuriated her and then stood, her wand still in his hand. 

“Rape? Oh my dear girl, no.”

She watched in silent fury as he withdrew an envelope from his desk and tossed another copy of the horrific moving images across his desktop. 

“I dare you to show these to anyone and accuse me of rape,” he said with a laugh. “First, there is nothing in a single image to identify anyone other than  _ you _ . Well, you and of course that lovely image of Minister Shacklebolt and his wife on his desk there. You cannot even prove I was there with you. Second, I cannot imagine anyone would look at these images and see you as anything other than a willing, eager partner.”

He reached for a photo and held it up to show her. “Look how prettily you spread your legs in this one. So eager to be stretched and filled by a pureblood cock. Tell me, did you feel  _ cleansed  _ after I anointed your mudblood cunt with my seed?”

The rage that had built inside of her exploded in a burst of uncontrolled magic. She had the satisfaction of a brief look of shock on Malfoy’s face before he threw up a magical shield. What hurt the most in that moment wasn’t that he’d blocked her angry discharge of magic - no, she’d not been surprised by that for he’d been known as a fearsome duelist during the war. What hurt was that he’d instinctively used the wand in his hand to shield himself.  _ Her  _ wand. It was a betrayal of the deepest sort, and it hurt every bit as much as the acts he’d committed against her person the night before. 

“You are disgusting!” she seethed. 

“No, Miss Granger. You, as usual, with your Gryffindor sensitivities, assume that everyone is willing to play by the rules you’ve set. The Malfoy family did not get where it is today by playing by the rules, nor will I permit a mudblood to destroy a business empire generations in the making,” he said in a deadly serious tone of voice that sent a shiver down her spine.

“So you resort to rape. And blackmail. God, is there anything you  _ won’t _ do? Sell your child? Murder your wife?” she said bitterly.

A hint of a smirk crossed his face. “When it comes to protecting my family’s interests, you’ll find there’s very little I won’t do. You, on the other hand, are so convinced of your own correctness, so certain that young Mr. Potter’s victory in the war is sufficient to protect you, to give you free rein to destroy our traditions and our rule of law.”

“I’M destroying it? God, that’s laughable! I wasn’t the one literally overthrowing the government to install a terrorist regime in power. I wasn’t the one trying to exterminate an entire segment of the population because of some ignorant belief in ‘dirty blood.’ You should be in Azkaban with the rest of the captured Death Eaters! But if ignorance, racism, and hatred are the traditions you hold dear, then they deserve to be destroyed, eradicated like the cancer they are,” she spat. “And you deserve to be destroyed with them for your willingness to  _ rape _ someone over a political fight.”

He looked amused now. That smug, awful bastard looked at her in amusement, and rage burned in Hermione. 

“We’ve already established that you were a willing partner. That particular combination of potions is hardly illegal, and even if it was, you can’t prove a thing.”

“I have your letter! I have proof of your blackmail!” she spat.

He laughed then, a robust, hearty laugh that made her want to claw at his perfect, pale skin. “Did you bring it with you? Go ahead then and take a look at it.”

She hesitated for a moment, and he made an obnoxious “well, go on,” motion of impatience with his hand. She fumbled in the pocket of her robe and pulled out the parchment. 

She stared in wide-eyed horror as the elegantly-scripted words rearranged themselves into a new message.

_ My dear Hermione, _

_ I must applaud your creativity. I had not anticipated you would be so forward as to want to engage in such salacious activity in the Minister’s private office, and on his desk no less! Thank Merlin for Gryffindor bravery and silencing charms. When you first approached me to talk ‘policy,’ I never anticipated such a depraved manner lurked behind your studious facade. What a delightful enigma you are!  _

_ Your suggestion to bring a camera was most inspired. Enjoy these charming mementos of our time together. I know I shall look upon them with fondness. And you, my dear, will ensure that these images remain a private matter between us. I know you desire the end of my marriage, but alas, I cannot undo the bonds of magical matrimony. For now, this shall have to be all there is between us. Know that I hold you close to my heart - your brilliant mind, your fierce determination, and your delectable little body are ever-present in my thoughts.  _

_ Until we meet again, _

_ Lucius Malfoy _

A scream of rage erupted from her as she read the new letter. 

“A lovely sentiment, is it not?” he asked smugly.

“How dare you! How  _ dare _ you imply that I wanted this? How dare you imply that this was somehow MY idea!” Her hand shook as she gripped the parchment tightly enough to crumple it in her grasp.

“Personally I thought it a rather inspired bit of a writing, not to mention a clever use of magic. Try what you will, Miss Granger, the original wording will only ever be visible to you. Anyone else who views the letter will see exactly what you just read: a letter of devotion from a married wizard to his daring, exhibitionist lover.”

_Think, Hermione, think,_ she told herself. _You have to out-_ _manoeuvre_ _the Slytherin here._

“You’d risk your marriage? Your reputation? You’d have the world think you ‘soiled’ your precious purity by bedding a muggleborn?” she challenged. His vocal belief in the superiority of his “pure” blood had long been a defining part of his persona. Surely he would not want it known that he’d touched her in any intimate sort of way.

Lucius crossed the room to an ornately carved credenza and poured himself a drink from a decanter. Hermione’s tender stomach twisted at the sight of alcohol. 

“Risk my marriage? No, not at all. The magic involved in my bonding to Narcissa cannot be undone. For better or worse, we are together. I appreciate your concern for my marriage, but Narcissa is well aware that the ends justify the means. Always.”

He took a long sip of what she assumed was firewhiskey and then offered her a cold smile.

“As for the world knowing that I soiled myself with your impure body, I can live with that. My reputation has suffered far worse slights and still recovered. It’s amazing what Galleons can do to ensure people forget a few pesky indiscretions. That said, if the world sees that letter and those photos and believes Hermione Granger to be my mistress, your argument that I am an unrepentant pureblood bigot loses quite a bit of steam. In fact, I dare say it would be buy me a great many allies on top of the sacred families whose support I already have. For how could I be believed to be evil when Gryffindor’s own princess, best friend to the Boy-Who-Lived, welcomes me into her bed and her body?”

“You raped me!” she hissed.

“Those images imply otherwise, as does that letter.” 

He tapped her wand against the side of his leg with his left hand, cradling his drink with his right. 

“So, whether or not you release the images… well, that is entirely up to you. Doing so won’t harm me in the slightest. In fact, I dare say being publicly known as your secret lover would be a boost to my family’s reputation. Draco has done well enough for himself thus far that I am unsure he really needs the help, but he’ll take it. Slytherins do welcome any advantage we can get. 

“However, I do believe that releasing those images would do great damage to  _ you _ ,” he continued. “Fair or not - and I have no doubt you believe it unfair - witches are judged so harshly for perceived slips in morality, far more so than wizards ever are. Kingsley Shacklebolt has made such a point to position his administration as loftily above the previous governments in terms of corruption, and he’s already on thin ice with some of the older families for some of his policies. The implication that one of his key senior staff was so sexually indiscreet, so willing to use her position to bed and ensnare a married, wealthy wizard…He’d likely have to terminate your association with his office in order to protect his own position, and you would surely lose your position on the Wizengamot for your moral failings. The electorate is fickle, and ours is such a traditional society, something mudbloods cannot seem to comprehend.”

His voice trailed off as he made a tsk-ing sound. In the silence that followed, his words sunk into her like poison. This entire, twisted scenario was diabolical in its execution. She’d been effectively put into checkmate. 

If she refused to do his bidding, he’d release the images and ruin her career and any hope of gainful employment in the magical world. She’d seen what Rita Skeeter and her Quick-Quotes Quill could do to reputations, and by the time Skeeter and Malfoy were done, Hermione could imagine a scenario in which she had to retreat to the muggle world or leave Britain altogether to rebuild her life and career. He was right about conservative attitudes in the wizarding world and double standards for wizards and witches when it came to sexual expression. 

If she tried to get ahead of him and release the images herself, to expose his blackmail and accuse him of rape, the charmed letter in her hand - a copy of which she had no doubt he’d share with the press - would undo the entire effort. She would be publicly crucified as an unhinged muggleborn who tried to ruin her lover because he would not -  _ could not _ \- leave his wife. Again her reputation would be in tatters and her livelihood destroyed. 

Bile rose in her throat again as she slowly came to grips with the idea that he’d won. That smug, horrid, vile, despicable wizard had  _ won _ . He’d played dirty, and he’d beaten her. Again.

She glared at him, hating him more in that moment than she’d ever hated anyone before, more than she’d ever hated Voldemort or Bellatrix Lestrange.

“What is it you want me to do,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

A genuine smile spread across his face, and she hated him even more because it made him look handsome in a disturbing sort of way. 

“Ahhh… that’s much better. I am  _ so _ glad you see this my way,” he said smoothly as he set his drink aside. 

She blinked back tears, determined not to cry in front of him, as she listened to him lay out exactly how he envisioned the new few Wizengamot sessions playing out. Had he not been her enemy, the opposition, a small part of her could have appreciated the deft political  manoeuvring he suggested. He even had a reasonable alternative for her to remove the anti-discrimination language - he could guarantee the old guard in the Wizengamot would approve a lesser piece of legislation related to creature rights that she’d also championed if she got rid of the anti-discrimination legislation. She’d be able to save face with Kingsley and keep her seat on the Wizengamot and her affiliation with the Minister’s office. 

But he’d won. The anti-discrimination legislation she’d spent her career crafting, the legislation that would revolutionise their world, the dream she’d had of truly building a more accepting, egalitarian magical society, would wither and die. With the blackmail material he held over her, he’d be able to block all of her future attempts to pass the legislation. This was the closest she’d ever come to passing it, the closest she’d come to achieving her dreams, and he’d cruelly, viciously violated her body and snatched her life’s work from her. He’d drugged her. He’d raped her. He’d blackmailed her. 

And he’d won. 

It was beyond unfair. 

She stood there in silence, listening to him speak as her anger coiled around her like a protective shield.

“I should kill you.”

The words slipped from her lips in a forbidden whisper, a dangerous thought given voice. 

For one brief fraction of a second, Malfoy faltered. And then another one of those hateful smiles crossed his face. 

“Yes, I rather thought you might feel that way. To be honest, I am surprised it took you this long to come up with that suggestion. ‘Brightest witch of her age,’ my arse.  _ Should _ you kill me? You would not be the first to ask that question, nor will you likely be the last. Which is why I have a bit of an insurance policy.”

He scooped up the moving photos and slid them back into the envelope and tucked it into a desk drawer.

“As you may have surmised, the photos here are merely a copy. A set is addressed with another letter and tied to my magic. Upon my untimely death, it will be sent to the head of Magical Law Enforcement. The letter blames you, my dear, for my murder. Another copy with the same letter will also be released to the  _ Daily Prophet _ in a similar manner should I turn up dead. It will, of course, destroy your reputation, but I suspect you’ll be more preoccupied with a looming dementor’s kiss to care about the end of your career.”


	4. Chapter 4

###  Part 4 

 

Hermione locked down her floo as soon as she passed through the green flames into her flat, afraid he would follow her. He’d practically shoved her through the fireplace in his study, passing her wand to her just as she departed. Eager to get away from him and his touch, she’d nearly dropped her precious vine wand into the fire. 

Once safely locked and warded into her flat, she dropped her wand and collapsed into a heap on the floor. All of the emotions she’d held in, all of the anger and frustration and hurt burst forth in a flood of tears and hysterical sobs. 

Never in her life had anyone ever beaten her like this. 

Sure, she’d been captured during the war, and torture at the hands of Bellatrix Lestrange had come exceptionally close to breaking her, but she’d survived. She’d escaped with her life, her sanity, and Bellatrix’s wand. 

Lucius Malfoy, though… Lucius Malfoy had broken her. 

He had used her and broken her, and all for political gain.

She might have vomited again, but she had nothing left in her stomach but bitterness and hate. She laid silently on the floor, watching shadows cross the room as the sun’s rays moved past the mullioned windows of her flat and the room slowly darkened, signifying the passage of time. Her mind twisted and turned over the events of the last 24 hours. 

Malfoy was cunning, and a planner, and she’d underestimated him. She’d known he was evil - despite his grand gestures of benevolent philanthropy and ‘reformed’ public persona - but she’d stupidly let her guard down around him. She’d been too cocky. She’d grown comfortable in her role in the Ministry, and she’d wrongly assumed he could not touch her, harm her in such a public event like the Minister’s Yule Ball. He held the cards right now, all of them, and the steps he’d taken to acquire them repulsed her. 

She sat up slowly and stretched. Yes, he held the cards now, but he would not forever. She’d failed to play the long game, failed to anticipate all possible moves from someone who did not play by the rules. She would not do so again.

She was not sure how she would do it, but some way, somehow, she needed to collect and destroy all copies of those images and the letter. She needed to find a way to neutralize the threat he held over her, and then she needed to get revenge. 

Lucius Malfoy needed to pay for what he’d done. For far too long he’d run roughshod over everyone else, bending the wizarding world to his whims. But no more. She would stop him, and she would have her revenge. He would never see it coming.

 

~oOo~

 

The Minister’s budget passed almost unanimously, as she had expected it would, now unencumbered by the anti-discrimination legislation she’d championed. 

It broke her heart. 

If Kingsley Shacklebolt noticed her lack of enthusiasm, he did not comment on it. He’d been surprised by her recommendation to pull the legislation and instead advance a minor creature rights bill, but he’d acquiesced, and she’d had to bite back tears as he’d smiled and told her how much he trusted her judgment. While the creature rights bill did indeed move her closer to full legal rights for werewolves, it was still just a baby step and far from the sweeping reform that was needed. The creature rights bill passed on a close vote, and she had a sinking suspicion that she owed Lucius Malfoy for its passage.

She saw him in the Wizengamot chambers, watching the proceedings as the votes were tallied on her creature rights bill. When he caught her eye, he smirked at her and made a mocking gesture of applause before turning away, and she hated him for it. 

Prior that Yule, she’d seen him in the Ministry with some regularity, and occasionally at social events, but they rarely interacted outside the Wizengamot chambers. After his blackmail, he seemed to be everywhere. He finagled an appointment to a commission she chaired on land use rights and magical creatures. He showed up for hearings on early childhood education to question legislation she championed. He followed her onto the lifts and stood uncomfortably close to her. He took copious notes on something or another in the Ministry library, invading what she had long-considered her private research space.  

Worst were the social events where she had to make polite conversation with him or even worse, pose for a photo standing beside him. She was convinced he sought her out simply to force her to interact with him because he derived some sort of sadistic pleasure out of making her uncomfortable. 

He was everywhere, and every sighting wound the coil of hatred she carried for him even tighter. 

Despite her prodigious intelligence and her capacity for research, one thing Hermione did not fully understand was that hatred has its own magic, a dark magic. 

She knew, of course, about the deep, mysterious, powerful magic of love, for after all it was what saved Harry’s life more than once. Love was possibly one of the strongest magics in existence...followed closely by hatred. She herself had known love, love for her family, love for Harry and Ron and the Weasleys, love for Hogwarts and for magic itself, but hate? No, she’d not truly known hatred until Lucius Malfoy and his spiked eggnog.

With each encounter, each passing week, each month, her hatred grew, and the magic that formed around it strengthened her desire for revenge, until it blotted out almost everything else. If her friends noticed a change in her, if Kingsley or others in the Ministry noticed a new quietness to her or an ever more fierce devotion to her research, they did not comment, and they did not intervene. And thus her hatred and the magic it spawned grew and nourished her, fed her, led her down winding paths of spells and potions and magic she’d never explored until finally, at last, she had a plan of her own.


	5. Chapter 5

###  Part 5

 

“My, my, will wonders never cease.”

She stiffened at the silky drawl, the honeyed voice of her tormentor. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” she said tightly.

“Miss Granger. What lovely yet unexpected attire from you,” he said, walking a half-circle around her, looking her up and down with a perusal that made her skin crawl.

Her ballgown for the Ministry’s Yule Ball that following year had drawn more than a few raised eyebrows. It was heavy satin in an emerald green that was an almost exact match to the green in the Slytherin tie her nemesis had worn years ago in school. The bodice and hem were heavily embroidered with beading in jet black and hints of silver, in a swirling pattern vaguely reminiscent of snakes. The full skirt left ample room for hidden pockets, making it both beautiful and practical. 

“Acting shocked that a muggleborn such as myself can properly dress herself for a Ministry gala runs counter to your supposedly ‘reformed’ image.”

“Oh, I am not shocked that you can dress yourself. More that you’re here decked out like an heiress of Slytherin.”

“You approve then?”

He looked her up and down again, and she resisted the urge to curse him.

“I do, although I admit that your gown would look much better hiked up around your waist as it was last year. Care for a repeat performance?”

She stepped back from him with a fierce glare on her face. “Go to hell.”

“I’ve already been there, my dear. The devil spat me back out,” he said with a smirk. “Enjoy your evening Miss Granger. Should you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

He strolled away then, as if he had not a care in this world, and Hermione had to draw in a deep breath and fight to control the surge of magic that wanted to erupt from her. 

_ Calm yourself. It’s almost time. He’ll never know what hit him,  _ she reminded herself silently.

She watched him across the room as he approached his wife, who was talking to several other society witches. 

There were other opportunities, other times she could have manoeuvered the chess pieces across the board to bring him into checkmate, but there was something poetic about doing it here, in the same place he’d violated her a year ago. 

She squared her narrow shoulders, drew in another deep breath, and palmed the potion-filled phial hidden in one of the pockets of her skirts. 

“Was that slimy snake bothering you?”

She turned and smiled brightly at Harry and Ginny as they approached, having watched her exchange with Lucius Malfoy from afar.

“No. Not anymore,” she said with a genuine smile. 

“I have to ask,” Ginny said slowly. “You look gorgeous, but what’s with all the Slytherin green and the snake-y stuff?”

Her smile widened. “Well, green IS a Christmas colour, after all. It felt festive. And technically the beading pattern isn’t snakes, although you aren’t the only one to mistake it as such.”

“Oi! ‘Mione! Happy Christmas! What’s with the snake dress?” Ron asked a moment later as he came up behind his sister and brother-in-law, accompanied by his wife Lavender, who elbowed him in the ribs. Harry suppressed a snicker at his brother-in-law.

Hermione laughed. “Let’s just say that it’s symbolic.”

“Of what?” he asked.

“I know I said ages ago that being in the Wizengamot would be a learning experience. I’ve learned quite a bit about Slytherin cunning and ambition in the last year,” she said cryptically. 

It was clear her friends did not know what to make of her response, but her smile put them at ease, and she followed them to a table, eager to hear the latest about their families and their lives. She ate, she drank (after discreetly casting diagnostic charms on her glass and its contents), she talked and laughed and danced and carefully watched Lucius Malfoy all evening. 

The pieces moved into place. 

She made her move.

She left before midnight with an empty phial tucked safely into her dress.

 

~oOo~

 

Checkmate officially arrived two days later, in the middle of a Wizengamot session when Lucius Malfoy collapsed during an elderly wizard’s rather dull speech on taxes. Malfoy was rushed to St. Mungo’s, of course, and by the time he arrived, he was in a magical coma of sorts.

The papers carried the story, headlines blaring about the possibility of foul play, along with a looping image of the head of the house of Malfoy being levitated out of the Wizengamot chambers. She watched the image on a repeat for a very long time.

The healers were stumped. It was as if Malfoy had been dosed with draught of living death, for his condition was very similar to the death-like sleep brought on by the potion, but he did not respond to the Wiggenweld potion, a known antidote. A bezoar was equally ineffective. He was alive, but completely unresponsive.

Narcissa Malfoy insisted it was attempted murder, that someone had tried to kill her husband. There was an investigation, of course, and everything around his desk in the Wizengamot chambers was checked for contamination. Everyone present at the time of Malfoy’s collapse in the Wizengamot was searched. The Aurors found nothing.

Hermione herself graciously submitted to a search and in full view of Rita Skeeter and her infamous Quick-Quotes Quill, proclaimed that a threat against one member of their esteemed body was a threat against all. She demanded - and easily won - a series of new security measures designed to protect members of the Wizengamot. 

The Aurors checked into Malfoy’s whereabouts for days leading up to the collapse and learned that in addition to the Minister for Magic’s Yule Ball, Malfoy had spent time in Diagon Alley and had visited wizarding Berlin as well as Durmstrang. The number of people with whom he’d come into contact was easily in the thousands, making it difficult to determine how he could have been cursed or poisoned. 

Harry confided in her some weeks into the investigation that Malfoy had so many enemies they did not know where to start even narrowing the list of possible suspects, a job made even harder because they could not figure out what had caused his condition. 

New Year’s passed, and then Valentine’s. Malfoy remained in a mysterious state of suspended animation. He was moved from the hospital to Malfoy Manor, under the care of private healers. The rumour at the Ministry was that even the country’s top medical experts couldn’t figure out what had caused his condition or how to fix it. Most speculated that dark magic was to blame. 

This theory was furthered by the raid on Malfoy Manor. Prior to his collapse, Lucius had managed to keep the Aurors from conducting regular raids on his home through a series of well-placed bribes and/or blackmail, but with him incapacitated and Narcissa demanding answers to her husband’s condition, there was no way to keep investigators out. The ancient manor home was combed from top to bottom. Hermione had not been present at the raid for it was well beyond the scope of her job, but she’d learned through a few discreet inquiries of her own that enough dark artifacts had been seized from the house that Malfoy was likely looking at substantial fines or even jail time when he eventually regained consciousness. 

Some speculated that perhaps he’d been cursed by some dark object in his home, and many seemed to think it was a fitting punishment for all the dark magic he’d reportedly dabbled in over the years. Curse breakers from across Europe were brought in to examine Malfoy, but his condition remained unchanged. 

With each passing week, the coil of hatred in Hermione slowly loosened. Every meeting she attended without seeing his face, she could breathe a little bit easier. Every day she avoided the hiss of his voice in her ear, she felt a little bit safer.

She would have preferred to destroy all copies of the awful Yule Ball images and letter outright, thereby removing all blackmail material he had on her, but since they were too well hidden, she’d had to resort to other - more creative - means. Given his ‘insurance policy’ of having the photos delivered to law enforcement and the press upon his untimely death, she’d not even had the option of killing him. 

But this… suspended animation, a modified draught of living death, combined with a stasis potion and a spell tied to her own magic created a most effective means of neutralising him whilst still protecting herself and her reputation. He was not dead, but he could no longer hurt her or threaten her, and only she could revive him. It was not a perfect solution, but it was the best one she’d been able to create under the circumstances.

Six months to the day after Lucius Malfoy drank a glass of spiked eggnog, the Wizengamot finally passed Hermione’s anti-discrimination legislation. It passed by the narrowest of margins, and it would never have happened if Malfoy had been present to block it. 

Eighteen months prior, she’d sworn to Lucius that she would pour of glass of champagne to celebrate the legal destruction of blood supremacy when her legislation passed. Surely no glass of champagne had ever tasted better than the one she savoured the day of the vote. Her life’s ambition, finally realised. A legacy of equality that would outlive her, that would make their world the safe and welcoming place it should have been for her, for the Creevey brothers, and for countless other muggleborns.

After celebrating with her colleagues and her friends, Hermione returned home and removed Lucius’s incriminating photos and letter from their warded hiding place in a loose brick in the chimney. For the first time in months, her stomach did not roil in protest and her magic did not flare at the sight of graphic images. 

She placed each one carefully in the fireplace and one by one, set them all on fire. 

Her only regret was that Lucius Malfoy never knew what hit him. He had collapsed and lost consciousness not knowing who to blame. 

She would have loved to see a look of revelation on his sneering face. She would have loved to tell him that she’d spiked his eggnog days earlier, just as he’d spiked hers the year before. She would have loved to see him realise that he’d been outplayed by a Gryffindor, a mudblood, someone he considered beneath him. She would have loved to whisper to him, in his last moments of consciousness until old age would eventually take him, that this was her revenge for all the ways he had violated and wronged her and others like her.

As she watched the flames burn the letter and each photo into small piles of ash, Hermione was at peace.

  
  


_ ~Fin~ _


End file.
